


Progress

by etspes



Series: Aristophanes' Myth [2]
Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Ancient Rome, Angst, Falling In Love, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-26
Updated: 2010-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etspes/pseuds/etspes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agrippa falls in love, and Octavian tries to fight it. 47-12 BC, progress-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progress

**Author's Note:**

> I suggest reading this with REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight This Feeling in the background, potentially on repeat. I recommend Glee's version. :) Dates here are not in AUC. I got tired of calculating them.  
> Agrippa and Octavian own themselves, and si deis placet, they will never know about this story.
> 
> Please note that this fic is something of a 'sequel' to Aristophanes' Myth, so I have listed it as such. They can certainly be read separately, but this one may make slightly more sense in that context. I'm not actually sure.

**Progress**

**47**

            Octavian never spoke. The disapproval was obvious, but he seemed to feel that simply walking off would discourage Agrippa. On the contrary, Agrippa had never been the sort to be shut out, had never been given to giving up from a lack of response. And he got the feeling that secretly, Octavian knew it and was waiting to see how long it would take before he did something about it. There had been one night when Octavian had kissed him back, but the silence that followed sent them straight back to where they had begun—possibly before that, because this time, Octavian was ashamed of himself.

It took two weeks before Agrippa decided to do something other than furtively brush Octavian’s arm as he opened a book or gestured wildly about some philosophical point. He was getting tired of the tremoring shocks that burst through him every time Octavian so much as looked at him, let alone touched him at all. It was worse since the kisses had begun. Before, it had been an ache, an uncomfortable disturbance throbbing behind his eyes and in his belly every day. At night, he might muffle himself with his arm, and a few short strokes would be enough to send him into fitful peace before the morning came. But now those moments seized him in lessons, at meals, when Octavian laughed or leaned over to whisper something impish, and he would excuse himself. He would fall into his room, fall to his knees, and kneel there struggling for breath as he touched himself, and it did not help so much as it ignited the understanding that this was all he had. So it took two weeks before he could not take it any longer, before he was a shuddering mess, before Octavian had begun to notice that something odd was going on.

Octavian was in the habit of taking a walk after meals. It was, he claimed, good for the constitution, and it gave him time to think. Agrippa had woken up on the nones of Aprilis with the certain feeling that today, this must be ended, and the day had been interminable as he waited for prandium to come and go. When finally Octavian had finished the hard roll and the little fruit that was customary for lunch, Agrippa watched him stand, brush the crumbs from his tunic and nod to the tutor before he left. Grimly determined, Agrippa drank the rest of his wine and then stood without so much as a glance to the tutor.

Agrippa’s eyes adjusted to the sudden sun. It was hot this Aprilis, and he was glad to be wearing only a light tunic rather than a full toga. Leaves crunched under Octavian’s careless feet, making him easy to track. There was a wooded area not far from the villa, and Octavian was moving toward it, his shape outlined by the sun, moving with perfect unguarded grace. His arms swayed lightly at his sides, and Agrippa’s body clenched watching him, with arousal or nerves or perhaps sheer intensity. He waited until Octavian had paused near a thicker grove of twisted ilex before he caught up. Spring had truly begun: tiny white flowers were unfolding from the bright buds, those blood red and shocking against the deep, leathery green.

“Gaius.” Octavian whirled and then relaxed when he saw Agrippa.

“Marcus. You surprised me. “

“That seems to be the case frequently recently.” A slight frown creased Octavian’s face.

“You have been out of yourself recently.” Agrippa leaned back against a tree, tilting his face up to the sun.

“On the contrary, I have been more myself recently.” He looked at Octavian, whose face was swiftly becoming paler, trying to affect a lazy calmness.

“You have been distracted recently,” Octavian insisted. “You are tired. Even the tutor has noticed. You need your sleep, and some good food.” Agrippa pushed himself up off of the tree and moved so that he was quite nearly toe-to-toe with Octavian. He smelled of the grass and of olive oil and of the wine he had recently drunk, and Agrippa swallowed, breathing him, wanting him.

“On the contrary,” he repeated, his throat closing in desperation, “I need you.” Whatever blood had been left in Octavian’s face left it rapidly. He shoved his hands through his hair, blond locks sticking up in their wake, leaving him looking as uncomposed as Agrippa was feeling. He took a step unsteadily backwards, and Agrippa was oddly delighted that this landed him trapped, against a tree. They were almost touching now, and as he reached out to gingerly flatten Octavian’s hair, the young man’s fist shot out and caught him in the stomach. Agrippa doubled over.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” he demanded, holding his gut, bent, standing painfully up again. Octavian’s eyes were wild.

“I could ask the same of you!” he hissed, and Agrippa hit him with the hand not in his belly, his fist smacking soundly across Octavian’s jaw. Octavian hit the ground and wound his arm around Agrippa’s knees, yanking his legs out from under him. Agrippa fell halfway on top of him and hit him again. Octavian’s face burned, and he landed his fist squarely on Agrippa’s nose, feeling it crack beneath his knuckles, and Agrippa howled.

“You_ ass_,” Octavian rasped. “What—” Agrippa had flung his body over top of  Octavian’s, pinning his arms down, his face bleeding not inches from Octavian’s.

“I’m keeping you from hitting me again, you worthless clod—hey!” Octavian had tried to bring his knee up between Agrippa’s legs, but Agrippa had him pinned firmly to the ground. “For Mars’ fucking sake, I’m not going to kill you! I was trying,” he panted with the effort of keeping Octavian still, “to explain—quit it, would you?”

“I don’t want to know what you were trying to explain,” Octavian spat, “but you’re completely out of line.” Agrippa’s voice rose.

“I’m sorry you don’t want to know, Gaius, but there’s nothing you can do about that, _since you’re pinned to the ground_.” Octavian struggled beneath him, and Agrippa seized his wrists and yanked him up, slamming him against the ashy black bark of the ilex, biting his neck.

“I was trying to tell you,” he growled, “that I want you.” He bit down again just to feel Octavian arch under him. “I was trying to tell you that I cannot be your friend, that I cannot sit at lessons with you, I cannot read those thrice-damned Greek plays with you without thinking of you underneath me, I can’t fucking sleep at night.” Octavian writhed against him.

“Well, I don’t want you, Marcus, so you can shove it up your ass.” Agrippa pushed against him, thrusting him back against the tree.

“Yes, you do, you’re fucking hard. You can’t tell me you’re not. I can feel you. I’m not stupid.” He grasped both of Octavian’s wrists in one hand, sliding the other down to Octavian’s groin and taking hold of his erection. Octavian hissed. “You can’t tell me this doesn’t feel good.” His mouth came down on Octavian’s, the iron taste of the blood running down his face sparking against his tongue as Octavian parted his mouth for him. Something caught fire in Agrippa’s blood, and he curled his hands under Octavian’s backside and lifted him, curling the slender boy’s thighs around his own waist, thrusting against him. Octavian threw his head back, clenching his fingers in Agrippa’s short, dark hair and locking his legs around Agrippa’s back. He mumbled incoherently to the skies, and Agrippa pressed his mouth against Octavian’s throat, his chest, his shoulders, and fumbled awkwardly with their tunics, yanking them up.

“Damn it, Marcus…oh, gods yes…you can’t…please…this isn’t…_yes_.” This last as Agrippa’s palm closed around Octavian, touching him in short, hard strokes before pushing himself against the other boy. “Please take me…” he gasped, and Agrippa did.

 

~

**40**

Agrippa had been dictating a letter in the middle of the afternoon when a knock came at his door. A little slave peered around the door and said shyly, “Master, Dionysius sent me to tell you that Gaius Caesar is here. He wishes to know if you will see him.” Holding up a hand to the letter slave, Agrippa addressed the little boy at the door.

“Tell Dionysius you are to lead him here.” The young slave nodded his head and disappeared. Agrippa dismissed the letter slave and was clearing up the tablet and stylus when footsteps appeared outside the tablinum again. The door creaked open. Agrippa looked up from his desk. Immediately he stood, his face wrinkling in a smile.

“Gaius! Come in, sit down.” He indicated a chair. Octavian glanced around and chose a seat, settling himself upon it, and Agrippa moved to sit across from him.

“What brings you here on this fine day?” A shadow passed over his face. “Don’t tell me it’s Antonius.” Octavian shook his head unhesitatingly.

“No, no, nothing like that. For once, the news is a blessed thing.” Agrippa raised his eyebrows as Octavian leaned forward.

“Indeed? Has Antonius finally availed himself of that lovely dagger he carries around?” Octavian ignored him.

“Marcus, I have decided to marry.” Agrippa’s eyebrows rose higher.

“You are married.” Octavian glowered.

“The marriage is unconsummated. Neither of us is pleased with it, and it has done me no good with Antonius. I am returning her to her mother.” Agrippa smirked.

“As you say. Whom are you marrying? And _why_?”

“Her name is Scribonia, and—” Agrippa cut him off.

“Lucius Scribonius’ daughter? She is married already! And she is older than you are! _And _she is family to Sextus Pompeius! Are you mad?” he demanded. Octavian spread his hands helplessly.

“There’s nothing for it,” he admitted. “Maecenas showed her to me, and I have fallen in love with her.” Agrippa stared at him for a moment, taking in the perfect composition of him, the open, honest expression on his pretty face, and the fog that had been growing oppressive in his chest suddenly lifted as the beauty of it dawned on him. He burst out laughing.

“You have done no such thing!” he hooted, gasping. “She is useful to you, nothing else! Sextus Pompeius… Maecenas—ha! That ass!” Octavian’s jaw dropped slightly, and his expression flashed rapidly from authenticity to surprise to reproach and finally to outrage. He opened his mouth to rebuke Agrippa, but Agrippa waved his hand as he collected himself.

“No, no, don’t bother,” he insisted, wiping the mirth from his eyes. “I know you too well. It does not suit you to lie. Did you think I might judge you? You are far too composed ever to fall in love, my friend. That takes some measure of abandon.”

Octavian frowned. “And I suppose you would know?” Agrippa grew thoughtful.

“You might be surprised.” A beat passed, each watching the other, and then Agrippa stood, offering his hand. “Well, then, may the gods bless your union. Come, kiss me before you leave.” Octavian followed him to the tablinum door and leaned to press a kiss to each side of his face, but Agrippa laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Not like that,” he said softly, something lighting in his eyes. Octavian studied him for a moment. A strange expression flitted over his features, wrinkling his brow, and then it was gone. Agrippa leaned over him, meeting his gaze, to shut the door. It clicked smoothly as Octavian’s hands settled on Agrippa’s face, and his mouth over Agrippa’s mouth. It was sweet, sincere, heart-breaking, and it was all Agrippa could do to hold himself back as Octavian kissed him thoroughly, taking his time.

It could have been moments or hours pressed together like that, the fingers of Agrippa’s left hand curled at the back of Octavian’s neck, twisting in fine blond tendrils, the right hand grasping his shoulder, and Octavian’s hands resting lightly at Agrippa’s waist. Octavian had gotten taller, Agrippa noted absently, and he was stronger than he looked. It had been far too long since either of them had been held this way, that much was evident, because as Octavian’s mouth brushed over his, there wasn’t even the barest hope of catching fleeting reason.

Finally Octavian stepped away, and when he spoke, his voice was almost steady.

“I bid you good day, Marcus, and health. I’ll show myself out.” He turned to go.

“And I wish you joy,” Agrippa murmured, and he watched Octavian walk out the door.

 

~

**31**

“I know,” Agrippa fumed, “that you think you know how to run an army, Gaius, but you don’t, which is why you have me. The ships are light, but people are not as ruled by their consciences as you would like! If they were, we _wouldn’t be here._” Octavian threw his hands in the air.

“And you,” he shot back, “are far too cynical and undervalue the use of guilt. _You_ think if we just kill everyone, it’ll solve the problem!”

“Well?” Agrippa demanded. “Won’t it?”

“No!” Octavian shouted. “It will land us with Antonius dead and people back at Rome beginning to wonder about the wisdom of trusting us!” Agrippa slammed the flat of his hand on the table.

“With all due respect, Caesar, if you let the man break our blockades just to make sure no one doubts you, then you are playing a dangerous game. You will have a broken blockade, an enemy who could still escape, and people at Rome wondering why you weren’t more decisive! Or do you want to be Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Cunctator?” Octavian flushed and lashed out toward Agrippa, but Agrippa caught his arm firmly and held it highly. "His fleets,” Agrippa continued, “will be weakened from the recent storm and unable to hold up against yours.” He wrenched Octavian’s arm back down to his side. “You don’t have to kill the man, but you have to lash him soundly, or he’ll get right back up again, like that damned Pompeius. Destroy his fleets, and he’ll come along with his tail between his legs.” He leered. “Just like you like it, Gaius.” Octavian’s already pink face flamed now and he swung his other arm toward Agrippa, catching him in the side of the head before Agrippa could stop it.

“Gods _damn _it!” Agrippa swore. “Why are you forever hitting me!”

“That was completely off,” Octavian hissed. He fought against Agrippa, who now had Octavian’s wrists crossed above his head and was backing him toward the wall. “You have no right to say any such things, especially when you’re wrong. It will save us the most men—” his back hit the wall “—to let him break the blockade. We’re strong enough to stop him, and seeing him run will sufficiently rouse his men against him. Why are you so damned determined not to admit I’m right?”

“It’s a risk!” Agrippa yelled in Octavian’s face, his tone suddenly rising. “Do I have to shout it in your ear?”

“And what’s wrong with risk?” Octavian exclaimed. “Everything we have done since Julius died has been a risk! We have not done a safe thing in our days!”

“Those are _calculated_, Gaius! You’re guarded, someone is watching out for you! You’re not doing battle on the sea, praying you didn’t make a tiny, grave error in judgement!”

“This is not an error in judgement! This is—” Octavian yanked at his arms, “this is manipulation of the people, which is far better than smacking them over the head with something! Why are you being so blind?”

“Because if you go out there and Antonius is more prepared than you think he is, which I suspect he will be if you give him the time to gather himself—he’s not an idiot—then you are at far higher risk of dying. And if you die, then Antonius will come to Rome victorious and I—” he broke off.

“You will die,” Octavian sneered, “and what a terrible fate for a Roman soldier, to die on the field of honor, defending his Republic.” Agrippa’s eyes burned.

“No, Gaius. I will be alone. And I cannot send you out there without doing everything I am able to ensure that you will come back here.” Octavian stared up at him, his bright blue eyes surprised, deflating. “I love you,”Agrippa said softly. “Or can’t you see that?”

~

**27**

Politics was no less stressful than battle, even if it bore a slightly lesser threat of death. Agrippa would be up until all hours of the night in tavernas, at the houses of important men, of wealthy men, burning extra oil to make sure things happened the way he wished. He walked past Octavian’s villa each night on his way home, accompanied only by a guard or two.

That night, he had been at the house of Publius Felix until exhaustion had begun to tickle the edges of his vision, and he had gotten absolutely nowhere arguing with the brute. Finally, he stood to go, wishing Felix a good evening, and his host walked him to the door.

“You will not succeed, you know,” Felix said, leaning against the door frame. “There are too many against you, and too many who know their history too well.” Agrippa turned, his eyebrows raised.

“You will pardon me if I do not understand.” Felix folded his arms.

“I think you do. You tell that prancy little blond pederast of yours that he needs to be careful before he meets his father’s fate. He is not stupid. He will understand.” His eyes flickered across Agrippa. “Then again, he can simply use you to fight for him, can’t he? Perhaps you should be watching your back.” He bowed slightly and gestured to the door with his arm. “A good night to you. My greetings to your lovely wife.” His smile dripped with something unsavory, and Agrippa refrained from knocking the man to the ground and teaching him to watch his own back.

“She will be obliged. I would watch what you say aloud, Felix. Your mouth might get you in trouble one of these days.” Felix smirked as Agrippa bellowed for his slave and stepped from the house, gait wide and sandals slapping the stone. The man was bluster and nothing else; at worst, his neighbors would look on him as power hungry. At worst, they would not look upon him at all. He was not concerned with the politics. But the man was an ass three times over, and Agrippa no passive, damn it.

The walk was not short to Octavian’s villa, and as he strode decisively through the dark streets, he instructed his slave to wait in the atrium for as long as his business took. The doorslave swung the door open almost as immediately as Agrippa had knocked, admonishing the general that his coconsul was in a discussion with a number of men, and he would have to wait. Agrippa turned on the man.

“Where is he?” he demanded. The slave straightened his spine.

“The master is in a discussion, sir, and I cannot allow you to see him.” Agrippa looked at him for a long moment and then, very slowly, “Then you will go and find him. You will tell him that Marcus Agrippa is here for him, that it is a matter of life and death. I promise very little, slave, but I promise you that if you do not do this precisely as I say, I will know, and you will regret it sorely for the rest of your pointless life.” The slave swayed.

“Sir, the master is—”

“_Now._” The slave disappeared.

Finally Octavian emerged, his face pale and set.

“In the name of all that’s holy, Marcus, what on Earth is going on? Davus just informed me that this was a matter of life and death. You cannot threaten my slaves that way. They’re useless if they’re always shaking like rabbits.”

“Turn around,” Agrippa said in a low voice. Octavian stared at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Turn around.” The tone was the same, and Octavian’s expression was as bewildered as Agrippa had seen it since Caesar died, and then it changed. Anger flared up in his eyes and he flung a rigid arm behind himself to point at the tablinum.

“Agrippa, I have three influential senators sitting in my tablinum, and you want me to do Bacchus only knows what because, what, you’re angry? Drunk? Go home.” Agrippa’s expression didn’t change, and Octavian heaved a sigh and turned to go. Agrippa’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Send them home,” he said quietly. Octavian’s fists clenched heavily at his side, his head dropped, his throat bobbed and he turned.

“Agrippa—”

“Send them _home._” This last word ended on a hiss, and some predator slashed in Agrippa, some desperate beast. _Damn Felix. _Octavian met his eyes once, twice, and then moved from the room, his toga winding around his ankles gracefully. Agrippa was breathing heavily, and he swung around, heaving himself down the hallway toward Octavian’s bedroom, blindly, on the sound of Octavian’s voice.

“Conscripti!” He would walk in there, his arms wide, his head tilted, his face welcoming. “My coconsul has arrived with some disturbing news…” The voice faded, but the image did not. The senators would nod sympathetically—Octavian was one of two most powerful men in the Republic, and Agrippa was the other—and begin to move out of the house. He stripped off his tunic, dropping it on the floor, and unstrapped his sandals. Octavian would usher them out, murmuring platitudes the whole way, suggesting a further meeting, thanking them for their time, promising them his favor. He imagined greeting the senators: “Conscripti! Quite late, is it not?” _Consul, indeed! _the response. _A good night to you! Have a care for yourself! Health to you!_ The door would seal behind them and—

“Marcus!” Agrippa’s head snapped up. “What in the name of all the gods are you doing?”

Every muscle in Agrippa’s body had tensed at the unexpected interjection; he had been caught off guard. He swore under his breath. He would have been dead on a battlefield. He closed his eyes for a minute, opened them, looked straight into Octavian’s dismayed ones.

“What do you suppose I’m doing, Gaius?” He took a step closer. “I’m making this easier. Less time consuming.” Agrippa could hear Octavian’s sharp breath even from across the room, and he continued to advance slowly, watching Octavian move backward across the room, until he hit the wall. “Take your toga off, Gaius. You don’t need it in here.”

“What are you doing?” Octavian repeated. There was the look of a cornered animal in his eye, wild and trapped, instincts aroused.

“Turn around.” The command was flat this time, and Octavian did, warily. Agrippa closed his eyes again, shoved his hands through his hair, trying not to shake. Octavian was bracing his hands against the wall, his stance slightly wider than if he were standing, his head bowed. He was radiating heat; Agrippa had not yet touched him and could warm himself by it. He bent his head. Octavian curled his fingers as Agrippa kissed his jaw lightly.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked. It would have sounded almost conversational were it not for the raw, torn note in his voice. “Immortal gods, if you could see me. I am so ready for you.” Octavian’s head dipped further, listing.

“Marcus, you cannot say things like that.” Agrippa, his mouth hovering over Octavian’s shoulder, bit him. A hard kind of pleasure swam through the haze of his head when Octavian jumped.

“Of course I can. We are in your bedroom. Your wife is with her family. Are you intending to tell someone? Because I assure you, I am not. I will say what I please. And what you please.” He ran a finger down the length of Octavian’s body, pressed himself against the length of his back, and then yanked the toga from his shoulders. “You don’t need this, Gaius. You are so much more beautiful in just your skin. Take your arms down.” Octavian stood and allowed his tunic to be unbelted and removed from him, as though a child or a doll, and then he turned, surveying Agrippa.

“How dare you think you can just come in here and do that?” He spoke softly, but there was steel beneath his tone. He had drawn himself up, and he was long and sinewy, his pale skin dusted lightly with a feathering of blond. Octavian was in perfect command of himself, formidable even nude. “Send the city’s men back to their wives, invade my home, strip yourself in my bedroom and expect me to comply with your every demand? You do not have such say in my life, Marcus.” Agrippa raised his eyebrows mildly and appraised Octavian.

“Oh? You suggest otherwise.” Octavian’s face flamed and he stood even straighter, if that were possible. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Agrippa continued. “You have no idea how I need you right now. Please—” for a moment, the façade of calm dropped from his face, and he looked ravaged. “I was with Felix tonight, and he implied…that is, his suggestions were—” _too correct. Too raw. Passive indeed. _“Let me love you.” Octavian exhaled. Agrippa pushed him back against the wall. “I wish to kiss you,” he murmured, “all of you.” He pressed his mouth to Octavian’s shoulder, and then to his spine, and for long moments, until his legs burned from supporting himself at bent knees, he kissed down the entirety of Octavian’s back, grasping his thighs.

“The gods save me,” he whispered harshly against the small of Octavian’s back, on his knees, “I would break your door down to get to you, fight a thousand Hannibals if they tried to stop me. I would beg you until my throat was raw, just for you to touch me, Gaius Octavianus. May my legions never find out just how weak I am before you. You are everything.” There was the space of a heartbeat between the words having left Agrippa’s mouth and Octavian’s knees hitting the floor, falling before Agrippa, his eyes bright and dark. His mouth touched Agrippa’s softly, and then his forehead, his eyelids, each of his cheeks, his throat, his jaw.

“You would not have to,” he promised softly, just below Agrippa’s ear. He froze for a moment as Agrippa seized him almost violently about the waist, and then fell inelegantly into the embrace. His arms wrapped around Agrippa’s shoulders, one hand braced around the back of Agrippa’s head. “You cannot know,” he muttered. Agrippa’s arm tightened on his waist.

“Then show me.” Octavian pressed a brief kiss to Agrippa’s throat.

“Marcus, before any demonstrations, might I suggest we relocate? It is a mere few feet. I am getting too old to do this on the floor.”

~

**12**

            He had been, he considered, far more composed than he thought he might have been, when he had considered an event like that. Julia had stood, weeping, Gaius and Julia Minor, Lucius and Vipsania clutching her legs or her right wrist (even the eldest unsure quite what to do), her left resting on her rising belly. Augustus had stood utterly senseless to his daughter and grandchildren, though they eddied about his ankles as well. The perfumes of the body seemed so much stronger at this funeral than at the myriad others he had attended. The flames had caught immediately, and Agrippa was seized by a fierce glow about his face. Augustus was momentarily clutched by an urgent need to cry out that his general was still alive, that the flames needed to be put to rest. But he was not alive, and the mimes who surrounded the pyre mimicked weeping as the fire grew. The masks were morbidly happy, gross in contrast to the hundreds of somber faces about the body. Augustus himself had laid the ashes to rest, kneeling in the mausoleum to place them gently on the ground. He bent his head, covering his eyes with one hand, and whispered, “I loved you, too, my friend. Would that I had been as careful with you as you were with me.” The door was sealed behind him as he left, his back straight, not looking back.

            That evening, he sat at his desk, the perfectly circular chart of Agrippa’s survey of the empire spread across it. He traced his fingers across the long, inky lines, musing on what he might have given to be touching Agrippa himself. Later, he would engrave the chart on stone, and it would be placed in the colonnade for all to see and wonder at. He would mourn publicly for far longer than was called for, as a demonstration to the people of Agrippa’s worth, and far longer than that just for himself. But for that moment, Augustus would lower his head into weary hands, and he would cry.


End file.
